


Finding Your Way Back Home

by jesse_kips



Series: Three Years Gone [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:01:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesse_kips/pseuds/jesse_kips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has made it back home, after three years away. Now though, he has to wait and see if he can reclaim the life he left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Your Way Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Three Years Gone, which started as a little coda type thing and then grew a life of it's own and turned into a full sequel. So. Might not make much sense if you haven't read that. Also, totally unbeta’d and previously posted on my LJ.

Sherlock’s remembers the time he’d been welcome in John’s bedroom; he’d slept with John for the year before he left, so although he’s made his way back home, he’s still some steps away from the life he left behind. His own room is filled with boxes and smells slightly of disuse, and the bed feels strange. He’s unused to staying in one place now, and the lack of change makes him feel off-balance.

He still misses John, even living under the same roof, but that doesn’t mean he judges John for wanting the distance.

It’s only been three days since Sherlock came back to England, and only two since John learnt for certain that Sherlock had faked his death. That John is offering them this new start at all is nothing short of amazing – Sherlock won’t push him into anything. There’s no rush, after all; Sherlock doesn’t plan on leaving again.

He falls asleep to the sound of John shuffling around above him.

He wakes to the feeling of someone watching him. He blinks open his eyes, and sees John’s slumped form, leant against the doorframe, outlined in light from the hallway.

“John?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. He wipes his eyes, and pushes himself up into a seating position. “Is everything alright?”

There’s the sound of shifting from the doorway, and then John clears his throat. “Um, yeah. Sorry, I just… I thought you might be gone.”

Something in Sherlock’s chest clenches at that, and he flings the covers back from the bed and climbs out. He walks up to John and just looks at him for a moment; the shadows on his face make him look tired and gaunt, and he stands as though he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s dressed just in his crumpled pajamas, and his toes are bare and curled against the floor. Sherlock wants nothing more than to gather him up and warm him in his arms and his bed and never let go, make him smile and laugh and rid his face of this tired, worn look forever.

“I’m still here,” he says instead of doing any of those things, keeping a distance between them.

John smiles slightly, just a quirk of his lip, but it makes Sherlock warm through. “I can see that, Sherlock. I might not have your observation skills, but I have eyes.”

“And I’m not leaving,” Sherlock continues, because it was John who taught him that sometimes people need to hear obvious facts, and some things need to be repeated until a stubborn mind will believe them, and whatever is new and different between them, Sherlock’s desire to make John happy isn’t part of it. He knows he’s broken John’s trust, but he feels as though this moment, now, in the dark and the silence, might be their first step to be rebuilding it.

“I know,” John says, but his voice is low and quiet. He’s lying, but Sherlock will make him believe, over time.

“Will you tell me?” John asks, after they have been standing in silence for almost a minute, Sherlock tracing the lines of John’s face with his eyes, both familiar and not.

Sherlock blinks. “Tell you what?” he asks, and John shifts in place.

“About Europe,” he replies, voice quiet. “Maybe if you tell me where you’ve been, it’ll be easier to believe that you… came back.” He chuffs out a quiet laugh. “I don’t have the imagination to make up Sherlock’s Holmes’ European travels.”

Sherlock’s throat seizes for a long moment, and he nods because he can’t speak. “Of course,” he replies, and then gestures to his bed. “But only if we get to sit down. You must be cold.”

John looks at him searchingly, and then nods. They move to Sherlock’s bed, and there’s an awkward moment when John gets trapped in the covers, and Sherlock helps to unwrap him; his hands don’t touch John’s skin, but he can feel John’s familiar warmth. They settle against the pillows, a careful distance between them that never used to exist, but close enough that he can catch John’s scent, deep and addicting as he remembers.

He starts to talk as soon as John stops shifting, starting with Paris and continuing on, telling him everything except the long nights he spent wishing he was back home, the letters he saved as though they were made of gold dust, and watches as John slowly, slowly, relaxes against his pillow, letting Sherlock’s voice soothe him to sleep.

Sherlock watched John sleep for a while; his face has lost some of its lines, but not all. He’s still frowning, even in his sleep, and Sherlock aches to stroke them away. Instead, he lets John’s breathing send him to sleep, and the last thing he remembers before the darkness takes him is John’s fingers brushing lightly against his own.

***

 

John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed the next four nights. They don’t talk about it – Sherlock had awoken the first morning to find John already gone, making breakfast. He’d made enough for two that time, despite being out of the habit, and Sherlock had smiled when he saw the slightly burnt toast on a plate in his usual place.

Sherlock’s never been a big fan of sleep, and his constant movements in Europe have only helped to confirm this, but he makes sure he’s in bed for midnight every night now, ready and waiting for John to come and join him. Sometimes Sherlock sleeps and other times he can’t, but John’s presence in his bed, sleep warm and breathing slowly, makes it worth it.

 

***

 

The fifth night, Sherlock is describing the time he was shot in America, and John wakes from his half-sleep.

“You got _shot_? he asks, and his eyes are now wide and awake.

Sherlock nods, slowly. “Just through the arm,” he replies, and points to his left bicep.

John sits up and puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm, and pulls up the loose sleeve of his t-shirt. The movement reveals the small scar the bullet left behind, circular and pale. John brings one hand up to touch it, and the feel of his rough finger on the sensitive skin makes Sherlock shiver.

“Sorry,” John says, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes. “Does it hurt?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he replies, and looks down at John. The dim light of the bedroom makes the look in John’s eyes seem intimate, and Sherlock blinks and looks away.

“You’re lucky it just hit your arm,” John says, and he’s still holding onto Sherlock’s arm, his grip searing like a brand, and Sherlock hopes it leaves a mark, the imprint of Johns’ fingers against his skin.

He scoffs slightly. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I saw the trajectory and dodged the bullet.”

John prods the scar, very lightly, and looks up at him. “Not quite.”

There’s worry in John’s tone, but Sherlock decides to ignore it and focus on the teasing notes he can hear instead.

“Well, I never claimed to be a commando, John.”

That makes John laugh out loud, quiet but real, and Sherlock hopes it’s not too obvious from his face that he’s soaking this up, the sight of John all lit up.

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” John replies, and his voice is fond and happy, and Sherlock continues to tell the story of his time away, John’s hand still on his arm, and a slight smile still on John’s face.

 

***

 

At four am one morning, perhaps two weeks after Sherlock has returned to Baker Street, he is awoken by violin music. It is slow, careful and melancholy. The space beside Sherlock in the bed is still warm, which means that John waited for Sherlock to fall asleep before he slid out of bed and started to play. He doesn’t know why John would be hiding this part of himself, but he decides not to interfere.

Sherlock lets the music lull him back to sleep, and then the next morning, sends a text to his brother.

His new violin arrives only an hour later, the note reading _I look forward to your duet, Sherlock._ Sherlock crumples it up and then pulls out the violin, which could be a double for the one currently in John’s possession, if it didn’t have the pristine look of something brand new.

Sherlock starts to tune it, feeling the pads of his fingers protest against the strings pressing against them. He’ll need to get used to playing again, re-grow the calluses which have softened with his absence, but it will be worth it.

John walks in on him as he is playing his second song, and looks from him to the violin which remains propped up against the fireplace, case just slightly falling open. His face is blank. “Mycroft sent me a new one,” he informs John, without stopping. “After all, you’re used to my old one.”

John doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are bright and smiling. He takes the other violin upstairs, and Sherlock just keeps playing. After a few minutes, music comes floating down the stairs, the second part to the song Sherlock is playing. Sherlock slows down to match John’s beat, and they play together for almost an hour, never saying a word.

It lightens something in his chest.

 

***

 

It’s been three weeks, and they haven’t kissed. John has hugged him, has been held by Sherlock, they have slept in the same bed, but they haven’t kissed since Sherlock returned. Sherlock finds himself watching John as he licks his lips sometimes, as he drinks from his mug, or bites on a pen lid. He realizes he’s getting something of an oral fixation, but he can’t help it.

He can’t fully remember the feel of John’s lips against his, whether they would be chapped or smooth, the exact pressure John would exert when kissing Sherlock back. He dreams about it, wakes up ready to reach across the bed and pull John to him, recreate the mornings they used to spend in bed, hidden under the sheets, breathing the same air. Of course he doesn’t.

He needs to wait for John to make the first move. He knows that John is feeling something like guilt, for being with Sarah when Sherlock wasn’t here, despite the fact that he couldn’t have know he could have been waiting. He knows that John is likely still hurt, angry, not yet ready to go back to how it was, although every day it gets easier; John touches his shoulder, or leans against him on the sofa, heavy and warm. His fingers will linger when passing Sherlock a mug of tea, and he’s smiling more, that intimate smile which uses just one side of his mouth, and lights up his eyes.

Sherlock refuses to push things. He’s waited three years, after all. He’s learnt patience the hard way, and if anything is worth waiting for, it’s John.

 

***

 

Sherlock is called to his first crime scene in over three years almost a month after he returns to London. It’s not easy, being brought back from the dead, and the call from Lestrade comes the same day as the documentation which declares him alive once more. Another favour he owes Mycroft, frustratingly, but he has got his life back in full and that’s all he really cares about.

Lestrade looks as though he’s torn between punching Sherlock and hugging him when they arrive at the scene. Donovan had announced his arrival using his name, not a derogatory nickname, and Anderson gives him what could be viewed as a smile on his entry into the room. He remembers the photo he was sent of the memorial, in which Lestrade watched John playing the violin, and feels guilt clench in his stomach again at the lies it was necessary to tell.

He forces it away though when he sees the body, and drops down to her side in one fluid motion that feels both strange and familiar.

She is sprawled on her back, eyes dull and unseeing, blood around her head like a halo. He starts to catalogue the clues, all the intimate details of her life jumping up in front of his eyes, and this, _this,_ he has missed. Solving a crime just to solve the puzzle, unravel the secrets the dead keep so close. It’s so different to the past three years, where every puzzle had a huge weight attached, where a single misstep could have been the end of everything.

He leans in closer, runs a hand over her shoulders, moves pieces of the blood-clotted hair, and then smoothes over her neck. A slight compression in the skin makes him pause, look closer, and it all crystallizes.

He speaks his conclusions aloud, for a living audience for the first time in three years, talking as fast as his mind produces facts and information, about the man who came into this room to talk to the woman, and left it a murderer, stole her necklace and her dog, and took the murder weapon with him, and then looks up. Everyone is looking at him with a variety of reactions, but only has eyes for John.

“That was amazing,” John says quietly, and Sherlock turns to find John looking at him, his eyes wide and impressed and without the shadow which has been there since Sherlock returned.

“You do realise you’re saying that aloud?” he asks with a small grin, and John smiles in reply.

“Yeah. Don’t think I’ll stop though.”

They just spend a moment, perhaps two, looking at each other, and Sherlock can feel the connection between them spark and grow, and then Lestrade clears his throat and the moment is over. John flushes slightly, and turns slightly to the side, and Sherlock turns away from the view reluctantly, standing.

“You’re looking for a man around six foot five in height, dark hair, weak arches, and a penchant for designer shirts. He left here as soon as he got the necklace, so around four hours ago, and he’ll have headed back home to his wife. They were having an affair, but she broke it off, and kept the necklace. Elementary.”

Lestrade looks stunned for a moment, and then grins. It makes his new crow’s feet stand out. “Welcome back,” he says, and one of his hands twitches as though he wants to shake Sherlock’s hand, or hit Sherlock shoulder as he so often does to John. He does neither of those things, and Sherlock is glad of it. He doesn’t know how he would have reacted.

“I couldn’t leave you to handle everything, could I, Lestrade? God only knows how many cases you’ve mucked up while I’ve been gone.”

Lestrade smiles at that, a wry twist of his mouth. “We’ll pass on the cold case files, eh?” he asks, and Sherlock nods, already impatient to be done with this case, to pull John away and find out what this new look on his face means. If he wants to touch Sherlock as much as he wants to touch John.

“Do get in touch if you need anything else,” he says. “I don’t think even you could mess this one up now, considering the CCTV cameras which cover the entire outside of this building and the profile I’ve just given you.”

Lestrade nods again, and Sherlock wonders how long this civility will last, and then dismisses Lestrade from his mind and turns his attention back to John. He’s stood off to one side, hands shoved into his pockets, and Sherlock tilts his head towards the door.

“Chinese?” Sherlock asks.

John nods, and they leave the flat and walk into the cold, bitter night. Sherlock wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and John burrows even further down into his coat. They walk in silence for a while, and then Sherlock feels something grab his left hand. He looks down to find John’s fingers interlinked firmly with his, and looks up at John, aware his face is showing all his shock and hope.

“Maybe this time, we can get a candle on the table?” John asks, and squeezes his fingers, and Sherlock just nods numbly. John’s face is soft and tempting and this must be what getting a second chance truly feels like, Sherlock thinks, heart almost beating out of his chest.

John stops walking, so Sherlock stops too, and they are standing face to face, hands entwined and a streetlight streaming down onto them, which makes John’s hair shine like gold.

John leans up, lets go of Sherlock’s hand and then wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down so that they meet in the middle when they kiss. John’s lips are cool, and chapped, and he tastes like tea even though he hasn’t drunk any for hours, with an aftertaste that Sherlock can’t believe he forgot, a taste which makes his mind sing _John._

John pulls away, and his cheeks are flushed and his smile is beaming. Sherlock can feel the smile on his own face as well, just as big and happy. He runs one hand down John’s cheek, feeling the bristly stubble, the soft skin underneath his fingers.

“Soppy thing,” John says, eyes bright with humour and happiness, and Sherlock laughs and laughs and laughs, and when John joins in, giggling into his hand, Sherlock pulls him in close.

John’s only reaction is to pull him into another kiss.

 

***

 

They don’t make it out for Chinese. Instead, they order takeout and eat it sat pressed together on the sofa, stealing kisses between bites. Sherlock thinks he’s never smiled so much, his cheeks aching from it, but he’s unable to stop.

Finally, he abandons the food altogether, his appetite now completely focused on John, the soft skin on his neck, his jaw, the way he’s sighing into Sherlock’s kisses, eyes closed and hands keeping an iron grip on Sherlock’s biceps. Sherlock wants to reassure John that he’s not going anywhere, that this is real, but a part of him is still worried that he’ll wake up alone in his bed, or back in Europe, so instead he just tries to kiss his way underneath John’s skin.

After what could have been minutes, or years, or anything in between, John pulls away. His face is flushed, pink colouring his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His pupils are wide and his fingers are probably leaving finger-shaped bruises on Sherlock’s arms, and he hopes this is the case, that he carries the proof of John pressed close to him as long as he can.

“Bed,” John says, voice rough and tempting, and Sherlock can only nod. He thinks he would do anything John asked, go anywhere he wanted, when John sounds like that. Deep voiced and wanting and so very, very close.

John drags his hands down Sherlock’s arms, his calluses catching on the silk of Sherlock’s shirt, the noise loud in the suddenly quiet room. He entwines their fingers and Sherlock shivers, holds tight.

He follows when John pulls him upright, when John moves towards the door, when John leads them up the stairs, towards John’s room. John’s room, where he hasn’t been in over three years, John’s room which look different but still the same; the pile of books on his bedside table changed but still there; the photographs around his desk updated, but with Sherlock’s face still included; the plastic skull Sherlock bought John for their first Valentine’s day, Sherlock’s writing narrating possible causes of death all over the cranium, still pride of place on John’s desk.

He lets John push him down onto the (new) quilt, and lets his eyes fall closed. He lets John pull his clothes off, slow and gentle and so loving that Sherlock feels his throat start to close up. He opens his eyes then, to find John leaning over him, face open and loving and he cannot help how he pulls John down for a kiss, gasping at the feel of skin against skin, of being so close to John again after all this time. It feels like fireworks sparking along his skin, like he can’t breathe, like he’s been struck by lightning, and he wants _more._

He says as much to John, who smiles his filthy, tempting smile, and then gives him everything he asks for.

Afterwards, John holds Sherlock close, and they lie like they used to – wrapped around each other, sharing each other’s breath, hidden from the rest of the world. Afterwards, John looks at Sherlock, his eyes wet, and says “I missed you,” and “I love you,” and “Never leave again.” Afterwards, Sherlock breathes promises against John’s shoulder, against his cheek, promises about staying, forever, and John falls asleep in Sherlock’s arms, smiling and relaxed.

Afterwards, Sherlock stays awake long into the night, just watching John breath, and knows without a doubt that he’s the luckiest man in the world.


End file.
